To and Through Nebraska

by Frances I. Sims Fulton

The height of the buildings of brick and stone gives the streets a decidedly narrow appearance. A party of sight-seers was piloted around by Mr. Gibson, who spared no pains nor lost an opportunity of showing his party every attention. But our time was so limited that it was but little of Chicago we saw. Can only speak of the great court house, which is built of stone, with granite pillars and trimmings. The Chicago river, of dirty water, crowded with fishing and towing boats, being dressed and rigged by busy sailors, was quite interesting. It made us heartsick to see the poor women and children, who were anxiously looking for coal and rags, themselves only a mere rag of humanity.

I shook my head and said, "wouldn't like to live here," and was not sorry when we were seated in a clean new coach of the S.C. & P.R.R., and rolled out on the C. & N.W. road. Over the switches, past the dirty flagmen, with their inseparable pipe (wonder if they are the husbands and fathers of the coal and rag pickers?) out on to the broad land of Illinois—rolling prairie, we would call it, with scarcely a slump or stone. Farmers turning up the dark soil, and herds of cattle grazing everywhere in the great fields that were fenced about with board, barb-wire, and neatly trimmed hedge fence, the hedge already showing green.

The farms are larger than our eastern farms, for the houses are so far apart; but here there are no hills to separate neighbors.

Crossed the Mississippi river about four P.M., and when mid-way over was told, "now, we are in Iowa." River rather clear, and about a mile in width. Iowa farmers, too, were busy: some burning off the old grass, which was a novel sight to us.

Daylight left us when near Cedar Rapids. How queer! it always gets dark just when we come to some interesting place we wanted so much to see.

Well, all were tired enough for a whole night's rest, and looking more like a delegation from "Blackville"—from the soot and cinder-dirt—than a "party from Bradford," and apparently as happy as darkies at a camp-meeting, we sought our rest early, that we might rise about three o'clock, to see the hills of the coal region of Boone county by moonlight. I pressed my face close to the window, and peered out into the night, so anxious to see a hill once more. Travelers from the East miss the rough, rugged hills of home!

The sun rose when near Denison, Iowa,—as one remarked, "not from behind a hill, but right out of the ground"—ushering in another beautiful day.

At Missouri Valley we were joined by Mr. J. R. Buchanan, who came to see us across the Missouri river, which was done in transfer boats—three coaches taken across at a time. As the first boat was leaving, we stood upon the shore, and looked with surprise at the dull lead-color of the water. We knew the word Missouri signified muddy, and have often read of the unchanging muddy color of the water, yet we never realize what we read as what we see. We searched the sandy shore in vain for a pebble to carry away as a memento of the "Big Muddy," but "nary a one" could we find, so had to be content with a little sand. Was told the water was healthy to drink, but as for looks, we would not use it for mopping our floors with. The river is about three-fourths of a mile in width here. A bridge will soon be completed at this point, the piers of which are now built, and then the boats will be abandoned. When it came our turn to cross, we were all taken on deck, where we had a grand view. Looking north and south on the broad, rolling river, east to the bluffy shores of Iowa we had just left, and west to the level lands of Nebraska, which were greeted with "three rousing huzzahs for the state that was to be the future home of so many of our party." Yet we knew the merry shouts were echoed with sighs from sad hearts within. Some, we knew, felt they entered the state never to return, and know no other home.

To those who had come with their every earthly possession, and who would be almost compelled to stay whether they were pleased or not, it certainly was a moment of much feeling. How different with those of us who carried our return tickets, and had a home to return to! It was not expected that all would be pleased; some would no doubt return more devoted to the old home than before.

We watched the leaden waves roll by, down, on down, just as though they had not helped to bear us on their bosom to—we did not know what. How little the waves knew or cared! and never a song they sang to us; no rocks or pebbles to play upon. Truly, "silently flow the deep waters." Only the plowing through the water of the boat, and the splash of the waves against its side as we floated down and across. How like the world are the waters! We cross over, and the ripple we cause dies out on the shore; the break of the wave is soon healed, and they flow on just as before. But, reader, do we not leave footprints upon the shores that show whence we came, and whither we have gone? And where is the voyager upon life's sea that does not cast wheat and chaff, roses and thorns upon the waves as they cross over? Grant, Father, that it may be more of the wheat than chaff, more of the roses than thorns we cast adrift upon the sea of our life; and though they may be tempest tossed, yet in Thy hands they will be gathered, not lost.